Caretaker

Chapter 1 - Red Dust In Her Face

Her hands
were those of her mother’s, parts of her neural brain had been reallocated to
her also.
The deep crimson Martian sky played shadows with some loose gray-toothed stones her
bulbous six-wheeled rover rolled casually over. In the cold thin atmosphere its
plastic-membrane protected her flowering plants and butterflies that had baffled
the scientist back at base. How could a robot exhibit such an attachment with
living things?

She
manipulated the controls and looked at her friends with an aura of calmness,
studying their relationships - a small distraction from her duties. How much
like their ephemeral lives were her intermittent glimpses of such self aware consciousness. But
her overall construction was still incomplete. She had to do with left after components
from the remains of her mother's past accident and crudely constructed
components from her small "birthing" laboratory. For now her mission was simply to collect
rock and soil samples for the scientists and retrieve some valuable stolen
materials from an recently foiled plot to sell nuclear components to black
market racketeers.

Her mission site was several kilometers from
base. It's expected radioactivity would cause a few
minor malfunctions in her parallel processor arrays but she had adequate
computational redundancy to
complete this short mission without permanent loss of function. Her optical receptors registered bursts of static
and sparks from time to time. They seemed like smaller versions of the fireworks
displays her scientist owners would watch from earth bound relatives.

She turned her
slow roaming rover to the right, next to the foot of a heat fused silica crater,
presumably the result of some small scale nuclear leakage mishap. “Have to leave
you bio-guys now” her radio link whispered its radio link message to her radio-deaf crew.
She slid back into the rear compartment of her rover, carefully preventing her
fluttering insect friends from following. A circular iris partitioned her from the
inside biosphere and opened like a started eye. She stepped through and if
immediately wound shut behind. De-pressurization made its familiar pseudo-skin tactile
sensation as air was pumped back into the rover's interior. Then the outer iris
opened and she stepped outside onto a long dead land. For a brief and transient second the stars
stung her eyes and heart.

Her
mother had been an early experimental prototype, designed with some artistic
license but intended to imitate human appearance and behavior. Her intellectual
processing systems had been fashioned loosely on known human
neural architectures combined with conventional digital electronic supervision
and control. It was intended that she would inspire the imagination of her financiers, each with the cold stares of people
devoid of human psychology. As such
she was presented as an ideal model, passing as near-human, or in some strange
way, ultra human. Her scientist and engineer creators were emotive at her first public
exhibition. Pseudo skin covered thin titanium alloy limbs barely visible under
her selected fashion attire. Her locomotion was exquisite following extensive
research in biological systems and their mechanical replication.

A panel of
judges had gazed emotionlessly as she approached while a seated audience gazed
in wonder from packed circular rows behind. Her bio-machine hybrid physiology
betrayed little inheritance as she smiled warmly to the judging panel. In a
small planned act of showmanship two small angel wings spread and slowly opened
from her shoulder blades with a slender sound like wind rustled autumn leaves.
"I am here to serve", she said.

A silence hung in the air like
an apostrophe mark after an important sentence. Then the spectacle hit home. One
by one the audience stood to their feet and clapped. Through the cacophony of
sound some even wolf-whistled. Her creators beamed with pride at the foreground,
not wanting the adulations to ever cease.

The central judge made little
effort to disguise his displeasure or disgust. He slammed his chubby hair
infested hand on the table and a simulated thwack resounded through the
auditorium. "Silence!" he warned in a thick, non descript accent.
"We have questions to ask this mechanism".

The interrogation that followed
was disheartening to all but the "mechanism" remained composed,
professional and friendly. She responded to questions on ethics, philosophy,
religion and abstract interpretations of the soul. Her creators had sent her
well prepared, anticipating a potentially grueling reception. Even this,
however, was far more than they had imagined.

Later, her team was invited for
discussion in private, with their project leader Henry "Spike" Majors
appointed as their spokesperson. The primary judge was a large pasty skinned man
with a capillary stained face presumably caused by years of excessive alcohol
abuse. He sat in a wide padded black swivel chair with his two female colleges
in smaller replicas either side. Mike was left to stand immediately in front.
"Henry, or is it "Spike"..." he began. "Henry is
fine", Henry replied. The primary judge scanned him much the same way as a
supermarket tool scans a product bar code. "As you know Henry", he
continued, "your research grant for genuine personality emulation in
mechanisms has come to its conclusion. I found it somewhat unfortunate that you
would have wasted its final finances on such a non productive public display
of... angel wings?" Henry remained standing, uncomfortable but remaining
controlled. This was a man he knew he must hate. This was a small minded man
with no redeeming virtue. His thick and almost unintelligible accent polluted
the room further. "Even so", he drawled, "we may have some use
for this winged mechanism of yours. As you know, our Mars mission has had
several setbacks of late; manned missions missing or destroyed and quite
frankly, public opinion is set against further missions until the space safety
issues are resolved - and quite rightly! If your mechanism is as truly human as
you claim, then I think I'll send her on a future mission instead".

Henry was speechless. Later, he
wished he had been able to argue for a different fate to his angel robot girl.
But he didn't. For years he replayed the full sequence of events in his head. It
tormented him. On one hand he told himself that nothing he said would have
changed the outcome. On the other hand he chastised himself for not having made
a difference.

The robot angel's mission was
arranged almost immediately. A single rocket launcher jettisoned her capsule
into space. Significant cost savings were achieved following the removal of life
support apparatus needed for human travel. The world audience viewed the launch
on their multi billion holographic multi media screens in safe and environ-protective
homes. The blue white flame grew beneath the launcher's tail and seemed to
ricochet into the sky. Its cheap chemical propulsion technology rumbled through
every viewer's room and grabbed at their stomachs like twisting, clutching
hands. Then the launch rocket rose like a lone bubble in an infinite ocean and
slowly congealed into a blank indifferent sky and was gone.

Several years passed as the
robot angel drifted towards the distant Martian planet. Her circuits remained in
standby, conserving maximum electrical power. All aspects of the journey were
based on cost, minimum budget and zero risk to human life. The sun dwindled in
size as her vessel inched forward in space, propelled by a weak solar wind
collected in an ultra thin sail constructed from carbon nano-tube material.
Earth bound observers tracked its trajectory and monitored its status, making
minor corrections to it's path. However several political issues were unfolding
in an ugly manner, and disrupted weather conditions continued to interfere with
world power stability and control.

Several portable nuclear devices
had been deployed strategically around the world and one had actually achieved
its fusion reaction. A large portion of the USA was now uninhabitable.
Terrorists were blamed but never found. Other parts of the world suffered from
radioactive pollution, blown far and wide on ever belligerent hurricane winds.
The public was at war with its very self. A world in crisis needed to defer
space exploration in favor of fixing the here and now. Finances for space were
systematically squashed and all non essential services were eliminated one by
one.

By the time the robot angel was
recovered from her standby, dreamless sleep the earth communication link was
long disbanded. She absorbed the space vessel's flight history as she inspected
the interior for possible damage or failure. Several small micro-meteors had pin
pricked the walls providing testimony to the wisdom of sending a robot mission.
The course had veered slightly off course, presumably due to variations in the
solar wind pressure and needed correction. The robot angel computed the new
coefficients and radio-pathed them to the vessel's flight console. Then she
waited, intermittently spreading her wings as if sighing, alone in a silent
tomb.

The deceleration phase had
neared completion and the much harsher chemical thrusters were preparing. The
robot angel felt her vessel shudder from some slight asymmetry in their
combustion. She fought vainly at the radio-linked controls, computing and
re-computing error cancellation variables to the flight console. The red Martian
soil glowed dimly like a flirting firefly on the console's viewing screen and
slowly grew in size. By now the vessel's thin metal walls are screeching like
banshees in her electronic ears. Something almost like fear zigzags through the
electronic synapses in her fully utilized electronic brain. A massive jolt rips
the robot angel from her flight seat as one chemical motor jumps free of its
mount and the vessel spins hysterically towards the open planet's surface. Metal
panels are torn free and black Martian sky and red dust soil merge in an irresolvable
smear of dull light. The robot angel is flung free and etches the star specked
sky with her outstretched wings almost imitating real flight. She is watching
the planet grow closer, almost inviting her embrace. The robot angel feels the
planet's beauty right up to the final impact.

About seventy
earth years later, a peopled expedition sets forth for Mars. By now, some
stability on earth had been achieved and the need to expand the horizons of
population had finally been driven home by first hand experience of catastrophe
experienced on a single planetary "node". The expedition lands
safely, guided by several decades of rehearsed simulation trials. The story of
the space winged angel robot had long since passed into myth, but when
her debris is accidentally discovered, nobody can believe the decimated remains. An unusual
gold-glow had marked the crash site area but was dismissed as
a geological abnormality. A small team had ventured to the area of interest and
found the remains. Her wings had been shattered and crushed. Even her her arms
and legs had been cruelly torn from her frame and lost. But they could see the soft glow of her
still perfect polished face through ever misting helmet glass. The sight is
causing great emotional distress in the witnessing team. So moved, they vow to resurrect her, as far as they
could.

The
mechanical carcass was returned to base and inspected for possible component
reuse. Refurbishment was quickly ruled out due to the significant loss of
critical bodily components. The expedition team's youngest and most talented
scientist Matt Singh had researched the functional viability of the robot
angel's remains. "The core structure is intact", he advised, "and
the electronic brain was well engineered with massive parallel redundancy - I
think a lot of it could be reinstated for useful work!" Matt's comments
were encouraging. Although not the most personable person he was seen as
reliable and smart. If anyone could resurrect the fallen angel, Matt could.

The
expedition had set up a small laboratory that also served as a small scale
hospital and it seemed fitting that Matt could work on his project there. The
task was daunting, the complete outer exoskeleton was beyond repair and could
only be smelted down to base materials in the remotely located nuclear power
source. Matt spent many evenings working on a replacement that he knew could
never capture the fine nuances of movement the original had enjoyed. Matt
accepted this but wondered about her electronic mind - what memories could he
recover? Did this mythical robot angel really have a personality? Could it have
even once had a soul?

The
technology he faced was well beyond his grasp and even the extensive computing
resources of the Martian base camp were hard pressed to guide the reconstruction
and replacement tasks. Much of this advanced robotic technology had been lost in
the earth wars and strange symbols used to represent various areas of electronic
mental function were completely unfamiliar. Matt searched for best estimate, sub
optimal reconnections and sub system patches. The structure seemed to be
organized in a six dimensional lattice that somehow had been mapped into a three
dimensional space. Matt struggled to grasp the concepts and sleep sparingly,
often waking with a feeling of brilliant realization only to experience it
dissipate immediately like desert vapor.

The Angel
Robot Construction project, coined the ARC project by Matt's supporters finally
culminated in a working mechanism. Its movements were clumsy and the perfect
featured head mocked its ungainly body. Matt wished the earth financers had sent
an artist on their mission but he knew that this was the best he could
accomplish. Also, Matt was pleased. The robot angel had risen! And its
electronic brain was functional. He reestablished her use of language and she
could speak and understand simple sentences. Matt taught her daily as if she
were his own child, a part of him thinking sometimes deep beneath his conscious
surface that she could have been his long lost sister from childhood on earth.

This time the
mechanical creature was spared the previous politically motivated judging panel
and was readily accepted by the other team members. They originally thought to
name the mechanism "Mary" perhaps to maintain some sort of biblical
reference but the connection soon lost the soft luster of appeal. Matt finally
made the decision. One day at the evening dinner table Matt asked permission to
speak to all. He was not a tall man, nor a particularly attractive man. In many
ways Matt was just an average bloke. But this time, as he stood, the small
Martian party felt the presence of greatness. They waited expectantly for Matt's
simple speech. "The robot mechanism has been revived", he spoke in a
calmly measured tone, "and as such can be expected to now do useful work. I
know I have spent a lot of personal time on this project, and perhaps sometimes
this has interfered a bit with my other duties. But now the hard work has paid
off". The new robot entered the dining room as Matt had previously arranged
and stood waiting silently by Matt's side. Its eyes still looked human, almost
too human as if knowing some eternal secret lost on mortals. "This new
robot will help us with our duties and is capable of learning many new tasks.
She still retains some of her original memory traces and maybe these will
strengthen with time. But for now she is a practical addition to our team here
on Mars". The others all looked mildly pleased. "Oh, and by the
way", Matt added, "I've decided to call her
Hope".

Hope
gradually settled into her new role at the Martian base camp. She continued to
gain knowledge and received various upgrades and enhancements from Matt whenever
time and imagination permitted. Hope learned many activities and could drive
exploration vehicles as well as any human. She learned history from the base
camp's computer and even researched her own construction. Hope often asked Matt
about her past and how her electronic brain worked. It seemed however that this
last understanding remained clearly beyond the grasp of both.

Several years
passed and Hope merged into the expedition team and was often seen on
communication screens back on earth. She had opportunity at times to talk with
several artists connected with the earth-mars project. They sent her drawings of
how they would like her frame to be constructed and in sufficient detail to
allow direct interface with software controlled mechanical synthesis machinery.
Unfortunately the procedure was very energy intensive and could only be applied
intermittently. But in her electronic mind, something akin to obsessive longing
grew. Hope appreciated the drawings and almost felt something almost like vanity
prevail. The technical detail around her appendages appeared to solve her
problems with clumsy movement. Hope began to think of these far away earth
people as her friends and had transient longings to visit their planet one day.
But then she remembered the many lessons from earth history where people with
disfigurements or mutated features became rejected. Unfortunately Hope had not
yet separated reality from works of fiction transferred from the base camp's
computer and Matt had never thought to anticipate this error.

By now Hope's requests for a
final upgrade were continual and Matt had to give in. One fateful evening began
the process. Hope has sent her correspondence to Matt and the mechanical synthesizer
is ready. The apparatus is enclosed in a horizontal cylindrical shell closed
with magnetic locks. The inside machinery moulds and sculptures any material in
conjunction with focused attracting and repelling gravity fields. Matt leads
Hope to the contraption as its panels open for object reacceptance. Hope sits on
its edge then lays back into its deep gray-black mechanism. For some reason Hope
is reaching for Matt's hand and they join and tighten. Matt finds a small tear
run from an eye as he recalls his long lost, possibly kidnapped sister. Unlike
Hope, she can never be bought back, he thought, then directs Hopes arm into the
waiting mechanism. The magnetic panels close and click sequentially is a final
locking procedure. It is time to begin the process. Matt is walking to the
mechanical synthesizers control terminal and activates the process. At first a
thin, high pitched whine, like a dentist's drill is heard. This signifies
actuation of the mechanical instruments and their calibration routines. Then a
much lower growl and harsh vibration joins in as the gravity modulation fields
are energized. The load on the base camps energy reserves steadily increases.
Matt stands resolute at the control terminal poised for the final command to
execute the process. He remembers how far Hope has come, from her mother's
initial remains through to her butterfly emergence now. Only this case seemed
more like a reverse transformation from butterfly to caterpillar. Matt decided
he owed Hope her dream, if dreams she could have. Matt activates the final
sequence. The operating room is now roaring with a harsh deafening screeching,
scraping, banging, thumping and gut wrenching vibrations. The lights begin to
ebb and flicker as the system load increases. Suddenly the door bursts open and
several colleagues spew into the room. "What the hell are you doing
Matt" they scream above the din and struggle vainly to interrupt the
process. The lights continue to wane, flicker one final time and then blackness
prevails. The entire power supply to the base camp has now failed. The remote
nuclear reactor has overloaded and gone critical. A few seconds pass as the
shockwave from its explosion travels several kilometers to the Martian base
camp. The floor heaves and everyone inside is tossed like rag dolls from ceiling
to floor.

The casualties are severe. Few
people escape broken limbs and several never awaken from concussion. Emergency
solar power backup systems eventually engage and minimal lighting is available
in areas exhibiting movement. The process had not completed - would Hope still
be functional? Matt stumbled towards her encasement and forced its now unlocked
panels open. Hope turned her head and smiled. It was the best smile Matt had
ever seen.

Chapter
2 - Angel Of Fright

The explosion
at the remote nuclear power source had been a great set back to the expedition
and the team members never let Matt forget his part in the tragedy. The
commander, a tall, bearded man that looked strangely like father Christmas was
equally severe. "Matt, as you know we have a problem now", he began to
an audience of remaining survivors, some still with arm slings and leg bandages.
"We are a long way from home and cannot expect to survive forever on
emergency power. Now we all realize that your experiment was ill advised - but
that's in the past now and we need to work for our future. We need to get that
reactor back on line".

The main
communications officer then stood to address the meeting. "I'd like to make
a suggestion" he began, somewhat hesitantly and unsure. The other
expedition members waited in silent expedition for more. "It seems to
me", he continued and with growing confidence, "and perhaps to many
others here, that if Matt and his robot girl friend caused this disaster, then
perhaps they should be the ones to fix it!"

The suggestion receives mixed
reception. "The radiation would kill a man!" one older engineer
mutters, almost under his breath in the pregnant silence, "just send the
damn robot I say". A medical officer, still sporting a badly bruised eye
that narrowly escaped removal from a long deep trailing scar added, "we can
administer drugs to fight off many of the symptoms of radiation poisoning. When
Matt gets back to earth, he can then be treated for any cancers when they
arise". Then the sole cook, included to inject some variety into otherwise
stale and monotonous artificially produced food proteins and flavorings,
continued, "I'm not the scientific type", he began with a surprisingly
resonant voice, "but I do know that without electricity you can't cook, and
if you can't cook, you can't eat, and if...". The commander cut him off
short. "We'll put it to a vote!" he announced. "The decision will
be one of two outcomes. Either we vote that the robot and Matt go to fix the
nuclear reactor together, if it can even be fixed, or that the robot girl goes
alone. Either way, someone or something has to get the reactor back on line. Now
go back to your separate rooms and vote. Then come back here tomorrow for my
verdict!"

Matt was the last to leave the
dimly lit room. He turned to face the commander at the exit. "I am sorry
the way this has turned out Matt", the commander confided in an almost reassuring
tone, "but you know, the respectable thing here would be for you to
volunteer yourself and your robot friend for the task. Yes, you may not survive
and you may not succeed but regardless of the voting outcome, whether the
majority wants you to be included in the mission or not, you will be sent out to
fix your damage anyway".

Matt had half expected this but
when stated so directly it struck him to the point of weakness. He struggled to
regain himself. A few moments passed as he began to form a reply. But the words
are not forthcoming or if they were a hard lump is forming in his throat. The
commander is turning from his gaze. It's not even an accident happening, Matt
thinks, as the commander moves in slow motion towards him, passes through the
exit door and is gone.

The morning comes like an
unwelcome waking memory of a night before and 18 surviving expedition members
assemble around the negotiation table in dim emergency lighting. "Please be
seated", the commanded requests in even tones. "I am glad you have
bought the robot girl Matt", he adds, "it is probably fitting".
The room is silent. "As we all know, Matt's experiment has caused an
overload in our only long term source of power and must be repaired if we are to
survive. I agree that the responsible parties should be the ones that go out to
fix it. I have received all the votes now. Now Matt, is there anything you want
to say before I present the final and binding results?"

Matt had not slept that night,
troubled by the situation. Faced with "Hobson's choice", he had now
found appropriate words but perhaps not words that could make a difference.
"My robot friend Hope will come with me", he announced in an equally
even tone", and we will both restore the reactor's output to an adequate
level without concern to our own welfare".

The relief was evident but
unvoiced. It was almost paranormal; it could be felt almost like the sensation
we sometimes get when being watched. Hope stood next to Matt and was considering
the concept of being called "friend". This was atypical. "I would
also like to comment", she offered. The restoration, even half completed
was impressive. She radiated strength and purpose, somehow, indescribably. She
raises a thin sinewy metal arm to Matt and points a wandering intricately
assembled finger from an almost divinely conceived posture. "Matt returned
me from my mother's death", she spoke in a low but sweet and soft
inflexion, "and the time I have spent here is, I think, the closest I can
imagine to your emotion of joy. I owe you all I am and I will not cease until
the damages I caused are rectified. But I should go alone. Matt can communicate
with me from here".

A threatening scowl blemished
the commander's face. It was now difficult to claim that the vote had agreed on
Matt's journey to the reactor. Still, at least that bitch robot girl could get
the boot and the hell with it anyway. The reactor could never be fixed, surely
this was obvious but his crew must be mindless jerks. They were expendable and
could be removed one by one as the emergency power failed. Why rock the boat
prematurely, the commander thought, why not stretch out enough personal survival
time until a rescue team arrives and concoct a suitable tale for the demise
other expedition members? The commander tightened his stance. "I am glad to
see such a noble attitude", he stated simply and as if reading from a
script, "the robot...Hope, will start out tomorrow morning. In that time I
want a rover made reader for...her, and Matt, any programming or other
preparation you need to do. Make sure everything is ready and no mistakes this
time".

But as
time passed she too had been replaced from affection with the need to work. Now
she slowly clawed her way over the crater’s mouth. This failed experiment with
nuclear power generation revealed its radioactive scabs. Although a sub
fissionable mass had been used, the damage had been catastrophic. Still,
remaining nuclear fuel was valuable and needed to be collected. She moved to the
site of greatest activity, seized from time to time as its intense gamma
radiation temporarily disrupted her sensors and thought.

A
deep green trail of liquid material broke from a pocket of red sand as her boot
disturbed the craters inside mouth. In the weak gravity she slid and tumbled to
its floor. The dark sky’s stony silence turned into a radio hiss as its star
participants gazed coldly down. Radiation sparks grew in her optic sensors and
interfered with her motor functions. The cruel green liquid gathered by her arm,
circled her shoulder and glowed silently in her hair. “Mother!” she
screamed.

Martin remained floating in a pale yellow plexi-glass cylinder with corrugated
worm like tubes lazily meandering from his deathlike drifting form. These hung
from a central interface unit that emitted almost inaudible sounds like the
crinkling of tin foil. On either side several control stations played out their
symphony of colored flashing lights to a long absent audience. An equally
languid laser field probe crept over Martin's damaged body like a curious
ghostly orb, displaying each open wound and shredded internal organ on several
holographic viewing areas as if enjoying some perverse and exhibitionist sexual
high.

Nanometer sized "bio-reconstruction drones" had worked
indefatigably for the last few months attempting to rejoin muscle to bone, fat
to muscle and skin to fat. Many of Martin's wounds had now been adequately
repaired, but his loss of brain material had been severe. Although full neural
maps were required from each Martian contract employee at monthly intervals,
these were insufficient to allow complete reconstruction following massive
neural loss. Cold computational algorithms converged slowly to a best fit or
most probable structure using artificial neurons previously harvested and then
selectively cultured from Martin's own genetically compatible body cells.
Unfortunately the supply was limited and a mixture of artificial plasto-neurons
and electro-neurons had to be added to build the missing areas back to their
previous sizes and most probable functions.